


Butterscotch And Rain

by bodtlings



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Cabins, M/M, a cabin in the woods, and here it is, but its a lot of description, i dont even know what to tag this as, i was ranting about this idea on twitter and i had such an overwhelming need to write it, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 10:29:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodtlings/pseuds/bodtlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You remember those years of solitude that felt like solitary confinement, and even though they weren't, they might as well have been. Your grandfather died, your parents were, and still are, ashamed of you, and there was no one to lean on before Marco came into the picture. Going back sounds like a nightmare, but you've decided to face your fears and get it over with.</p><p>You decide to visit the cabin you grew up in, smack in the middle of the woods. You decide to visit your safe haven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Butterscotch And Rain

**Author's Note:**

> I had such a strong, overwhelming need to write this. 
> 
> This actually stemmed from headcanons I was thinking of on twitter with friends and after I thought about it for all of five minutes, I really needed to get this down. So here I am! I will warn you I get really descriptive and I get a little carried away so apologies in advance. I hope you enjoy!

It's a very common thing to have, a safe place. It's your own personal retreat that you can visit and have no worries of anyone else finding. You are free to be your cheesy, stubborn, elated, sad self with no fear of judgment, of discovery, of anything. It's just you and this place. It's meaningful to you in a way that you don't think anyone else will understand, or that you're too afraid to show anyone because it holds so  _much_  of you. It holds your secrets, your desires, your needs, your fantasies, your yearnings. A piece of your soul lies within that cocoon of solace and it's simultaneously frightening and extremely comforting. You confide in that space. You talk to a person you've created to represent your place in its entirety and it makes you feel better because you're not with someone else, but you're not alone. The walls aren't so frightening anymore because you've entrusted every part of yourself to them and you like to think they silently understand you.

Think about your place, whether it’s your bedroom, or a corner of the library nobody wanders to anymore, or a section of the woods, or even a booth in the back of a diner. You are comfortable in this little space. It is yours, even if only for a short time, and you are you and everything just feels right, even when it doesn't. Even when you are broken and ready to scream and cry and kick something, it feels right, because you are comfortable enough to openly do so in the confines of that space, simply because it's yours.

Now think about someone entering that space. You feel violated. You feel betrayed. You ask those very same walls that you tell everything to how they could possibly let someone else in. How could they  _possibly_  grant access to someone to a place that holds so much of you, holds parts of you most people don't even know about? You feel hurt. You are disgusted and you vow to never have another space again, because if that space can't be as trusted as you thought, then what makes another space any different?

Then again, someone went in there without your permission.

What if you willingly show it to someone? What if this person is so important to you, so vital to your happiness and mere existence, that you show them your space? You show them parts of your soul most people would find repulsive, parts that overflow with love, and parts that come from your past you're not proud of. Some of your happiest moments have been left there. Moments you're proud of, moments you despise, moments you're scared people would shun you for, moments that make you resemble a saint. Bits and pieces of you have gathered here over years, over months, even if it's just over days, and you've decided to let someone in. You trust this person so much and you care for them to a point where you're laying yourself bare in front of them, just in the form of you letting them into your place. And if they understand like you hope they do, they'll realize what a giant leap of faith this was. Because you didn't just show them a room or a corner of the library or a clearing in the woods or a booth in the back of a diner. You showed them  _your space._

You decide to confide in a person instead of walls.

It's never an easy decision. If anyone ever tells you otherwise, it's probably because they either 1) don't confide in it enough, 2) don't give it much love, or they sure as hell are 3) lying about it.

It's nothing short of sacred, because  _you_  are sacred.

That person that you let in, that you wholeheartedly trust and love and appreciate? They understand. They see your memories, your feelings, your personality all through the space and they are in awe. They notice the vertical scratches in the wood on the mantel your soccer trophy is sitting on because you've always been the person to keep sliding it off the shelf to admire it. They hear the chanting of your name from family, friends and teammates in those scratched wood chips when you scored the winning goal at nationals and got that exact trophy. They see the marks on the wall from the night you were so distraught and so angry and so shattered that you clawed at the wood until your nails bled and if they listen close enough, they can almost hear you screaming. It brings a memory of the time you were so upset you wouldn't talk to them for weeks and they start to understand why, even if they don't know the whole reason. They see a picture in a frame that holds the two of you when you were younger with goofy smiles and dirt on your faces and not a single care in the world. They feel happy because you still included them in your space even when they didn't know about it or weren't physically in it.

And yeah, your chest is tight from the fear of them running away and leaving you alone, and yeah, you feel as if the entire Cirque du Soleil has been practicing their stunts in your stomach, but yeah, you're relieved. The burden of being all alone is gone. The lonely feeling you sometimes had because you could only trust those walls and no one else has disappeared now because you've opened up. That sinking, sad feeling of not being able to talk to anyone at all because you were afraid no one would understand you like those walls have -- that feeling is so far away you’re almost sure you can’t remember ever having it.

That person that you trust, that you showed your soul to, has turned around and smiled with open arms. They’re welcoming you like you've only dreamed of them doing and you think you’re near tears.

They put their arms around you and open the blinds a little and filter some sunlight into your space, because --

"Jean, it’s about time. Welcome home."

 

* * *

 

 

If Marco hadn't looked up from the GPS in time, he would have missed the subtle beginning of gravel driveway next to a clearing that led them to their cabin. But of course, Marco having every stroke of luck, did look up in time to see the shiny black cobblestones that marked their territory. They weren't always there, but when Jean visited, it usually took him an hour to find the damn slope, so he thought stones were a good marker. Marco threw the GPS into Jean's lap with a mumbled, "found it" before easing the Jeep down the winding trail. This part always freaked Jean out the most; not only was it long and in the shape of a spiral, but on either side of the strip were fifty-foot drops and he would rather not plummet to his death in a Jeep trying to get down. Twenty solid minutes of excruciatingly slow driving and careful maneuvering later, Marco led the Jeep across a driveway of stones that led to the side of the cabin while Jean let out a shaky breath he wasn't aware he was holding in.

"Thank you for getting us the hell down here, God, Allah, Buddha, whichever one of you sick bastards that likes to see us be tortured coming down this trail."

"Jean, that's not a very nice way to talk to holy people."

"Yeah well that's not a very nice way to come down to this damn house, but  _yanno._ "

Marco shut off the Jeep and opened the door, getting out and walking to the trunk. "Come get your stuff, I'm not bringing it in for you."

With a loud, child-like groan, Jean complied and slammed the passenger side door shut before retrieving his two suitcases. Every pair of shoes he owned along with half of his wardrobe were  _essential_  in staying here, because why, oh why, would he go anywhere without it? Of course, Marco found it extremely silly for just a two-to-three week stay, but if it made Jean happy, he wasn’t one to complain. The duo unloaded the car and had dropped suitcases, coolers filled with drinks and half-eaten sandwiches from the ride up, little items to help decorate the cabin, and massive amounts of cleaning supplies. The cabin hadn’t been used in years and was originally owned by Jean’s grandfather, but after his passing when Jean was 10, the wooden house was signed over to him in the will and was rightfully his when he turned 21. Now, at 23 years old, he was ready to claim his other home with Marco, his boyfriend of five years, but not before tidying up. Before they had left their apartment back in the city, Marco had suggested buying heaps of bleach, dust rags, and anything else that would aid in their mission to make the house spotless. He was sure that years of inhabitation and filth would need to be taken care of immediately upon their arrival, something Jean was  _definitely_  not looking forward too.

When all of their things were out of the car and lined across the doorstep of the cabin, Marco looked over to Jean with excitement and an outstretched hand that held the key to the front door.

“Ready?”

Jean looked from the long silver key to Marco’s eyes that were filled to the brim with anticipation. He knew Marco was thrilled to have this cabin as much as he was -- this was going to be their getaway home, their place to be completely alone together and surrounded by nothing but each other. It was four walls in the middle of the woods where they were free to be as loud and obnoxious and enraptured by each other as they wanted and it was wonderful.

It would’ve been even  _more_  wonderful had Jean not visited the cabin in a long time. But Jean didn’t share that part yet, and if they were going to do this, live here on and off for a few weeks during the year, he had to tell him.

“Marco…” Jean’s hand was open, ready to take the key from his boyfriend, but he found that he couldn’t just walk into a place that held more than furniture from the eighties. He couldn’t act as if what was inside didn’t ever happen, because it did, and it was a big part of him that no one had seen before.

It was his safe haven.

He loved Marco dearly. In fact, he had never loved anyone as he had loved his Marco, and because of that very fact, Jean decided it was time to open the doors of a place he knew had been closed for a very, very long time, unseen to anyone and everyone except himself.

Jean dropped his hand and looked down at the place mat in front of the door that read  _Welcome!_  before closing his eyes. He took in a deep breath and slowly let it out, mentally counting the seconds he knew would countdown to Marco’s inquiry if he was alright.

_In 3...2...1…_

“Jean? Are you alright? Did you get car sick or something? I can go in the car and see if I have --”

Jean opened his eyes and his arm shot up, grabbing onto Marco’s bicep before he could turn and make his way back to the Jeep. He gave an apologetic smile and let out of a rush of air through his mouth.

“We can’t go inside yet.”

Clearly baffled, Marco replied, “Why not?”

“I need to tell you something first.” Now Marco’s heartbeat picked up and he could hear his pulse in his ears. The first question that popped in his head was  _what was wrong with Jean and why was he suddenly so sad looking?_ But if he knew his lover like he thought he did, he knew that a story was soon to come. He willed his heartbeat to slow down and with a calmer attitude, nodded his head and laced his fingers with Jean’s.

In silence, Jean led them away from the front of the cabin to the side where steep, man-made wooden steps were shoved into the side of the earth leading downhill. His grip on Marco’s hand tightened as he descended the steps he knew so well, but knew Marco didn’t. On a step that was jutting out and not as secure as the others, Jean stepped on a spot he knew wouldn’t cause the wood to fall out of the dirt and he quietly guided Marco’s feet to do the same. It had been a considerable amount of time since Jean had been doing this, but it was one of the things he knew so much about and was so familiar with that it never really left him.

The last of the wooden steps sunk into wet sand and massive amounts of pebbles. A giant tree that had fallen some fifteen-odd years ago lay across the edge of the river and acted as a perfect bench, which Jean led Marco over to sit down on. He was on autopilot now, removing his socks and sneakers and putting them on the bark next to him so his feet could dip into the cool water. Marco found it endearing and, with a gentle smile and an open heart to what he knew was coming, followed suit. He kicked his feet gently back and forth, grazing a rock covered in moss beneath his heel and feeling the tickle of tiny fish biting his toes that felt more like kisses than nibbles. Jean was immune to the fish’s signs of greeting and instead focused on the steady breeze and the blue jay on the branch across the river and the rushing sound of water passing before them.

“This is my place. This is where I always came to be alone and think, and it’s…it’s my place.” Jean’s voice was hushed, like if he spoke too loud he’d disturb the serenity they were surrounded by, but loud enough to be heard over running water and the splashing of fish. Marco laced their fingers together again and, feeling like he needed to give Jean a bit of privacy to tell him what he needed to, looked away from him in favor of admiring the shiny stones in the water that created a rainbow reflection on their surface.

“No one really knows that I’ve been here. I mean yeah, I used to come here when I was little with my parents to see my grandfather, but no one knows that I’ve come here after he died. It kinda shook me up when he did though, I wasn’t really expecting it. He would take me out here and we used to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and fish until dinner when my mom called us inside. We never kept them though, the fish. We always tossed them back. He said life was too precious and if we could keep from ending it, then we shouldn’t. So we would catch a fish, say a few good words to it, and send it back unharmed into the river.”

Jean recalled the memories fondly. The summers he spent with his grandfather eating sandwiches that always had too much peanut butter for his liking on them and of the homemade lemonade his grandmother made for them to take down to the river were one of his most treasured recollections. His grandfather had an old cassette player he used to bring down with him and sometimes, when they played the piano concerto cassettes, they would sit in complete silence for hours. They would listen to the piano, of the leaves rustling in the trees, of the dragonflies that would whiz by their heads every couple of minutes. And sometimes, when they didn’t feel like fishing, his grandfather would go into the storage room of the cabin, pull out two tubes, and bring them down to the river. Jean always preferred the blue tube with green fish on them and leave the bright orange one with purple octopuses for his grandfather. The two of them would tie a rope on the handles of each tube to connect them and they’d spend the afternoon drifting along the current of the river. Jean would cross his arms behind his head and look up at the sky, feel the seaweed graze his calves as they went, and listen to his grandfather tell stories of dragons or crazy fishing trips in thunderstorms or that one time he caught a swordfish that almost speared his left arm.

It was the definition of peace for Jean, and he savored it. And he’d be lying if he didn’t say he missed it. But that’s the thing -- he’d never say it.

Marco watched as a pair of blue jays chased each other in the air while listening to Jean tell his tale of older times. He had never known this about him and he thought it to be incredibly sweet. He thought of Jean as a child with his hair one color and cheeks of a rosy color with lingering baby fat and of a bright smile that he knew he still had. He wanted to say something, words of consolation, if any, but he knew there was more to be heard, and so he settled for running his thumb over Jean’s in silence.

Jean took a deep breath and continued. “I know you remember about what a hothead I was in high school and how many fights I’d gotten into. Honestly, it was a stupid thing to do and even then I knew it, but I couldn’t  _not_. After he died, my mom became really distant. I haven’t heard from my grandmother since, so God only knows where she is or what happened to her, and my dad is…well, he’s my dad. He’s still disappointed I’m gay and he’s still ashamed that I didn’t go to law school like he wanted. And high school was spent all alone, now that I think about it. Even then he was disappointed in my fighting and not being a good kid. I mean yeah, I had you, but this is before I actually knew that I was gay and before I knew I even liked you. Even kids on the soccer team who I thought were my friends didn’t want to associate with me. This was right around the time I was figuring it out myself and dealing with all this shit, and I was alone.

“A lot of the time, I ran away. When I was just fucking fed up with school and fighting and being around people who hated me, I came here. I would sit in my grandfather’s chair and look at old photo albums or I’d go to the linen closet and take down every blanket and wrap myself in them like a burrito. I took a lot of food from home and brought it here, sometimes in trips, so I could stay until it was absolutely necessary for me to go home. It wasn’t even home to me, I didn’t belong there. I was unwanted and unneeded, so I stayed here. This cabin, this river, everything here is my refuge.”

Jean stopped talking for fear of beginning to cry, and upon hearing the shudder in his voice at the end of his words, Marco looked at him for the first time since they went down there. He saw the struggle on Jean’s face; he saw the hurt and the loneliness, but what he saw the most was a child. He saw Jean being eleven years old in the living room of a musty cabin surrounding himself with blankets and pillows and old pictures. It was like he was looking at a memory of Jean. He could hear the rain pattering against the glass of the window and the quiet sobs coming from this little boy and the floorboards Jean was curled against on the living room creaking from his body shaking. Marco wanted more than anything to hug him to his chest and rock him back and forth, whispering words of comfort and giving him back a part of the love he lost. But he couldn’t, and instead of being in that dank living room, he was on a tree log at the river with the Jean of the present.

Even so, the urge to wrap him in his arms was overwhelming, but Marco resisted and bit his lip to keep from speaking so as not to disturb Jean’s train of thought.

After a moment of steadying his breathing, Jean thought he should stop talking -- surely Marco got the point by now because  _God I sound like a baby_. He knew Marco was waiting to listen for more of the story and was there  _to_  listen, so he pressed forward once more.

“This cabin means a lot to me. I know this sounds stupid as all hell, but it’s a part of me, you know? I’ve cried and screamed and laughed and grew up in this house, even if it was mostly by myself. It’s my place. It’s my safe place, and I’ve never let anyone in after my grandfather died, so you’re going to be the first since I’m ten. I just thought I’d actually tell you about it before you went in, that’s all.”

Jean looked to his left and his heart sunk when he saw tears falling down Marco’s cheeks. Marco merely gave a weak laugh and wiped his eyes before saying, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to cry.”

Jean rolled his eyes and gave the tiniest of grins before running his thumb over Marco’s cheeks, in part to wipe away the tears, in part because he wanted to remind himself that he was here. Marco was there for him,  _with_  him in part of his space, and he was going to be okay. Yeah, his mom didn’t care and his dad thought he was the biggest disappointment to walk the earth, but he had Marco and really, that was all he needed --  _he_  was all he needed.

It was a little while before either of them spoke; it wasn’t awkward in the least, and it was already understood that sometimes words just weren’t necessary. Sometimes they could be completely silent and still understand everything they wanted to say, everything they couldn’t voice, and be perfectly at peace. It was comfortable silence at its finest and Jean loved nothing more than sitting on the bark with someone he loved for the first time since he was a child, kicking his feet in the water with Marco’s head on his shoulder doing the same.

Jean was discovering that peace all over again, but with Marco. And he welcomed back the feeling with outstretched arms.

But of course, their belongings were still sitting on the front porch of the cabin waiting for their return and they still had massive amounts of cleaning to do if they wanted the house to be deemed livable. So, with the promise of return, Jean and Marco headed up the steps and back to the cabin.

Jean thought walking through the wooden door would be easier now that he told Marco the whole story, but he found that standing in front of it and trying to enter was still just as hard as the last time he left it when he was eighteen. He remembered the last night he slept there, remembered his speeches of goodbye. At the time, he thought an audible “until next time” monologue was needed as he bid farewell to his place until his return. If he closed his eyes and sent himself back there, he could feel the groaning of the floor beneath his socked feet as he walked around the first floor. He had wanted to say goodbye to the ground floor first -- it had witnessed all of his screaming, all of his crying and sleepless nights and rare happy moments like when he learned to cook fish by himself. It was the primary spot he lived in and he felt like a part of him had seeped into the wood. The second floor was saved for last, and it was the hardest. The one guest bedroom was ignored because Jean didn’t go in there much, so he walked passed it in favor of saying goodbye to his grandfather’s study. If you come up the staircase and make a right, at the very end of the hall, was Jean’s grandfather’s bedroom. Jean didn’t go in there too much to preserve the essence of his grandfather, but it, too, had been a witness to the hard times in his life. On nights when all he needed was to be hugged, when he needed to be against someone so he could have a heartbeat lull him to sleep, he would carefully pull back the covers of his grandfather’s bed and fall asleep on the side he used to sleep on. It didn’t help much, but it was more soothing than a bundle of blankets on a creaky wooden floor.

Letting someone into your space is never an easy thing to do and even  _thinking_  of opening the doors to such a personal part of you for someone else is especially unnerving.

None of this was exactly easy for Jean, but he was ready.

He was going to let Marco in his space.

Marco still held the key, and when he went to give it to Jean to open the door, Jean shook his head, gave a small smile and said, “You do it.”

“Are you sure? This your --”

“Yeah, it’s okay. Go ahead.”

Marco’s lips formed a thin line and Jean knew that worried face so well, but he nodded and prompted his boyfriend forward. Marco gave a small, “Okay,” and opened the door.

The hinges to the front door were whining from disuse, but the wooden panel swung open with minimal difficulty. From the limited light filtering through the drawn curtains and blinds, a thick layer of dust coated every possible surface that could be seen from just the doorway. Jean felt like he was looking straight through binoculars to the past -- the furniture was just how he’d left it and just like how he remembered it, minus the lack of upkeep. Looking at what he could see of the inside from the entryway stirred turmoil within Jean that he didn’t know how to deal with. He wanted to run. He wanted to forget everything this cabin resembled and everything he let loose there during the darkest times of his life. He wanted to erase every part of it and let it all go, never to be seen again. But as much as he wanted it gone, he wanted to embrace it. He wanted to embrace the old leather of his grandfather’s armchair, of the worn-in rug that lay at the foot of the white marble step in front of the fireplace. He wanted to relish the soft blankets he knew were still folded in the linen closet in the hallway upstairs and the couch in the study with cushions that you sunk into. If Jean were there alone, he was sure he would’ve ran back to their apartment in the city, cursing and regretting even coming back in the first place.

But he wasn’t alone, not anymore. He had Marco.

Forgetting their luggage and bags on the front step once again, Marco looked to Jean before turning and slowly walking inside. He stopped two feet from behind the door, turning back around to look at Jean, and with open arms and the gentlest smile Jean has ever seen him wear, he said, “Jean, it’s about time. Welcome home.”

Whatever promise Jean made to himself about not crying when he visited the cabin flew out the window and the dam was broken. Tears flowed and he did nothing short of crash into Marco’s arms inside their house. 

Cleaning was a fucking pain in the ass, if Jean had any say in the matter. Marco wasn’t particularly fond of the chore either, but the job needed to be done. He wished the whole house hadn’t been doused in layers upon layers of dust, but what could he do but clean. Before Jean could take the time to begin showing Marco around and dig up old memories, he brought their things to the guest bedroom, making sure to bring down every cleaning supply they brought, and got to work. Marco manned the kitchen and the dining room while Jean got the living room and the hallway by the stairs. Marco thanked himself profusely for waking up early that morning so they had the entire day to clean and make things neat, otherwise they would’ve been sleeping in a half disgustingly dirty house and he would have been thoroughly displeased.

Marco had made the beautiful discovery of a working heater, washer and dryer, and electric throughout the house. When he asked Jean if anyone ever shut it off, he had just shrugged and said his family was really wealthy so no one ever thought about shutting it in the first place. Marco found it to be a bit wasteful, but he couldn’t complain now that he knew he could do laundry and not worry if there was hot water in the shower. Marco had left the laundry room in favor of getting out his morning necessities to put away, which he knew were dire if he wanted to not be a zombie. If Jean could bring up every single pair of shoes in his possession, Marco could bring up his own loves -- the entire coffee maker, ten mugs, sugar, whipped cream, and several bottles filled with flavorings to drizzle. They both understood each other’s obsessions and no judgment was passed, or not  _too_  much, anyway.

After several hours of backbreaking work, the first floor was complete. Jean was quick to suggest they take a break, and if Marco weren’t exhausted, he would’ve chided him for being as lazy as always. So they sat together on a loveseat in the living room for a few minutes, catching their breath, until Jean stood up and walked over to a wooden shelf on the opposite wall. A tall trophy with a man kicking a soccer ball airbrushed in gold stood atop a block of wood. In front was a plaque that read  _Trost High Soccer Team: 2011 National Champions._ Jean remembered that game -- it was the final game at nationals and his team, The Stallions, were up against the toughest team from Sina Academy, the Titans. They were in overtime with a tie score of 2-2, seven seconds left on the clock, and Jean’s teammate Thomas had passed him the ball. Jean completed the pass and slid around the Titan’s biggest player to make the winning goal of the game and take home the National Championship trophy. It was one of the few days that Jean’s team acknowledged and appreciated him, and even though Jean wasn’t friends with any of them and he didn’t like soccer all that much, that trophy was his victory. It was one of the very few good memories he had of his time in high school and he was sorry he had forgotten about it.

A hand snaked around Jean’s shoulder and Marco came up next to him. He read the plaque and smiled, imagining Jean in soccer garb scoring the winning goal. He looked from the trophy to the vertical marks scratched into the wood that matched the edges of the medal. He imagined Jean in high school coming up to their cabin to get away, and every time he came up here, he would take down the trophy and admire it. He could picture Jean giving a speech of thanks and saying something like,  _“I couldn’t have done it without my teammates…oh who am I kidding, of course I could.”_ Every time Jean would take down the trophy it’d be a different speech, Marco pictured, and the thought made Marco smile.

Jean put the medal back in its spot, pushing it along the scratch marks on the shelf, and faced Marco, whose hands have slid from Jean’s shoulders to the sides of his face. Marco kissed his nose, his forehead, his cheeks, until finally, he tenderly kissed his lips, lingering for a few moments. When he pulled away, he leaned his forehead against Jean’s and whispered, “I know how hard this is for you, and I know what it means for you to let me in here. Thank you, Jean. I’m so proud of you.” 

Since the second floor wasn’t clean yet, Marco and Jean made camp in the living room. Marco fetched the blankets he had washed earlier along with pajamas, toothbrushes, and pillows while Jean found some aged wood in the log closet to get a fire going. Two blankets were laid down against the warming wood floor along with four pillows and a giant navy comforter for them to sleep under that Marco sprawled out on. The motions of sparking a flame came easy to Jean, just like sitting at the river had. He remembered how to get the fire just right so it wasn’t too dull or too big, but crackling enough so that all the embers underneath were lit and warming the room, even after the initial fire went out. After he had done a successful job, Jean crawled over to Marco and fell down next him, moving closer so he was nuzzled into his side with an arm wrapped around his torso. Marco’s arm slid around Jean’s back and his fingers traced lazy circles on his shoulder. He was about to ask Jean a question about a picture on the other side of the room he couldn’t make out too well when he heard faint snoring. Jean had fallen asleep on his chest, his head over his heart, and Marco stifled a chuckle. He tried not to move too much as he reached down for the comforter and pulled it over the both of them, silently thanking the house for having blankets in good quality and quantity.

While he was exhausted from the day’s work of cleaning and traveling, Marco wasn’t exactly ready to fall asleep just yet, so he succumbed to the thoughts he put to the back of his mind earlier that wouldn’t stop poking at him. He remembered back in high school, when they weren’t exactly friends, but were aware of each other, and Jean’s reputation for being the troublemaker. He knew that Jean had always been picking fights and been a general bratty kid, but he thought he was just being spoiled and acting like a child; he would’ve never thought that something like home life led him to act out in any way at all. Now that Marco thought about it, he felt ashamed for his naïve way of thinking, but he supposed he just had more growing up to do at the time and couldn’t kick himself too hard for it. He remembered later that year when they had actually became friends and Jean was absent from school for weeks. That nauseating feeling of worry was so strong that even in the cabin Marco remembered it vividly. He had managed to actually get Jean to smile for the first time since they had met and then he just up and disappeared. Marco, at the time, feared that he did something wrong. He thought he said something to set him off or did something to upset Jean, and it made him so anxious he’d been unable to sleep some nights. It set his mind a little at ease now, though, knowing that Jean had been here in the cabin instead of on the streets running away from home, even if he was unsupervised and alone.

 _At least he felt safe here,_ Marco thought to himself.  _At least he had somewhere to go. Still, I can’t even imagine. I don’t even know what made him vanish for so long. Maybe when we’ve spent some time here and he’s gotten used to everything, I’ll ask him._

Marco took himself out of the past and focused himself on the Jean curled into his side. He tilted his head so he was looking down at him, and he smiled. The toffee-colored top of Jean’s hair was flopped over Marco’s shirt in various places and Marco buried his nose in the strands. For the first time in the five years that they’ve been together, Marco finally understood Jean’s unique smell. Jean smells of grass after it’s rained, like morning dew, of sunrise and of trees. He smells of the river on a cool summer day and of the canopy of bright green leaves hovering over the cabin. Jean is earthy and like nature and it’s the best thing Marco has ever had the pleasure of knowing.

He falls asleep thinking that if they were anything, Jean would be rain and he would be the blades of grass that catch each drop. 

Jean was the first to wake up. He groggily raised his head from Marco’s chest and, upon hearing Marco’s steady breathing and seeing through a sleep induced haze the calm rise and fall of his torso, quietly pat around the floor for his cell phone. He knew there wasn’t any service, but knowing the time would be nice. He pressed the end button once he found it so the screen would light up and he regretted it immediately because harsh white light promptly decided to blind him. Biting his tongue to keep from audibly cursing, Jean blinked a few times to wipe away the temporary sightlessness and saw his phone displaying a time of 5:30am. Now is when he usually debates -- should he go for a morning run through the woods and wake up with a fresh start, or should he just say  _fuck it_  and fall back asleep? Jean looked around the living room until his eyes landed on his grandfather’s chair, and all too quickly he needed to get out.

 _Morning run it is_ , thought Jean. He carefully disentangled his limbs from Marco and quietly went upstairs. In the guest bedroom, he unzipped his two suitcases and fetched his running shoes out of one and a jogging outfit out of the other. Really, it was just a t-shirt and basketball shorts, but Jean thought he’d make it official by calling it his jogging outfit. Before he got himself together, he went into Marco’s bag and found a pocket he knew held pens and Post It’s and wrote Marco a note that he was out for a run. He changed, grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler they brought up, and went back downstairs. He stood in the living room for a minute and decided that no, the front door wouldn’t be good to walk out of, because the hinges would be so loud and they’d wake up Marco. He chose to leave the Post It on the coffee pot in the kitchen where he knew Marco would find it; the man couldn’t go a single morning without his coffee and Jean knew he’d make a beeline for it the second his eyes opened. Pleased with its placement, Jean pondered over how else to leave the house, and was stumped for a solid 3 minutes until he remembered the storage room exit. He tiptoed through the hallway, made a left, and opened the door. They hadn’t cleaned this room the day before and Jean was regretting it instantly; as soon as the door opened, he was bombarded with dust and moldy smell and he did his best to quiet his coughing. It was really more of a garage than a room, but it held everything that couldn’t be store inside the main part of the house, thus earning its alternate name.

Jean’s hands groped the wall for a light switch for several seconds before he found it and the first thing he saw illuminated was that orange tube with purple octopuses his grandfather would sit in at the river. It’s been years since he’d seen it -- even as a teen when he’d run away to stay in the cabin, he wouldn’t open the storage room door; there was too much of his grandfather, and him, inside it.

Jean stared at the tube and his throat started to burn. Leaning against his grandfather’s tube was his own, the blue tube with the green fish, and he looked away. He didn’t want to see it. He’d show it all to Marco later, but right then he just couldn’t bare it alone. He couldn’t handle seeing their fishing rods hanging on the wall or the big picture of them his mother had taken when they caught a fish that weighed ten pounds (that was, of course, thrown back in the river). He physically could not bear looking at the picture of him sitting in his grandfather’s lap in his tube, smiling as if he’d just won a trip to Disney Land. It was too much for him to handle without Marco, so he ran straight across the room to the door he knew led outside. He thrust it open, disregarding its initial resistance, and hurriedly shut it behind him.

He ran, and he ran, and he ran. He didn’t go anywhere in particular, but rather subconsciously followed a trail he used to run down when he was a teenager. It was a winding path that was on the side of a steep hill and it made Jean’s calves burn, but he focused on that rather than on the pieces of his past he’d just seen for the first time in years. He focused on the birds just waking up and chirping their good mornings. He focused on his sneakers, caked in mud and pounding into the dirt with each step forward. He focused on the forest, on the smell of a rain sure to come, and of chipmunks and daddy long legs that raced next to his feet. His attention was zoned in on the burning of his lungs and the protest of exertion in his thighs. The fallen branches and the pattern of light the leaves made on the forest floor and the green of his surroundings were what Jean focused on; anything to not think of what was waiting in that storage room.

Without really realizing it, Jean had reached the top of the hill. He dropped to his knees and twisted his body so that he was lying face up on the cold ground when he fell back. The sun had yet to touch the forest floor and warm it for the day, so the cool dirt felt good against Jean’s burning skin. He closed his eyes and listened to the erratic pulse throbbing in his ears and felt the blood rushing throughout his arms all the way to his fingertips. His thighs and calves and feet were rioting, but Jean didn’t care. He felt good. He opened his eyes and looked at the sky, bathed in the pinks and oranges and baby blues of sunrise. A grin had found its way to his lips and for the first time since their arrival, he felt content.

Jean thought about how different things were in his apartment in the city with Marco compared to the cabin in the woods.  _It feels like forever since I’ve done this. Can’t do this in the city, I kinda miss it_. Jean exhaled a gust of air and got up off the forest floor.  _I’ll have to show this to Marco. When I get home I’ll tell him about it. Maybe he’ll want to come up some time to watch the sunrise._

He found himself smiling again and, while planning which blankets to bring up to the hill for their possible morning outing should Marco agree to the hike, Jean took a long swig from his water bottle and jogged back to the cabin.

Marco’s phone blared at 7:15am -- it was his alarm for work during the week and he had forgotten to shut it off before coming up to the cabin. He jolted out from underneath the navy comforter and scrambled to shut it, successfully doing so after prolonged searching of finding the end button. A groan rumbled from his throat as he flopped face down into his pillow. His right hand stretched to the spot where Jean was supposed to be, but upon finding the space empty, Marco’s head popped up. He squinted, not fully used to the limited lighting in the room, and yawned instead of calling out Jean’s name.

Being the generally bubbly, friendly and sincerely nice guy that Marco was usually didn’t stem from the good nature of his heart -- it came from coffee, specifically, a mug of coffee right when he woke up. He  _was_ very kind and considerate and compassionate, but before he could actually _be_  those things, a giant, sweet mug of coffee needed to be in his system for him to properly function. Before he went on the hunt for his boyfriend, who was officially declared MiA, Marco stretched with a moan and heaved his body off the floor. His back hurt from the insufficient cushion under his weight, but he knew sleeping in the guest bedroom that night after it was cleaned would make up for it. He trudged into the kitchen and over to the counter he had set the coffee maker on the day before and found a note right over the cover.

_Marco --_

_I woke up at 5:30, which is fucking ridiculous because we’re here and I don’t have work but whatever._

_I went for a run in the woods, I’ll be back in a bit._

_Love you._

It took longer than typically necessary for Marco to process the note containing Jean’s whereabouts, and he had to piece it together slowly.  _So Jean was MiA, just not MiA in the house. In the woods. Running. Since 5:30 that morning._  When it was strung together, it made sense to him, actually. Jean would go running during the weekends in the morning, just not usually at the asscrack of dawn. Marco shrugged and decided that after his cup o’ Joe would be when he would start thinking like a functional human being. He opened cabinets and drawers and anything he could get his hands on to find the coffee grounds, and after extensive inspection of every crevice in the kitchen, Marco had found his love in the refrigerator. A sigh of relief rushed passed his lips as he quickly dumped coffee in the filter in the machine. He added water to the side, pressed on, and very impatiently waited for it to brew.

“Come on come on come on,  _today_.”

Jean usually laughed at Marco’s morning display, which more often than not consisted of him stomping his foot like a five-year-old girl who didn’t get the toy she wanted. But Jean wasn’t there, and Marco pushed his impatience down in favor of getting his mug ready. If Jean had left at around 5:45, then he would be home soon, so Marco took out a mug for him as well along with the sugar in the adjacent cabinet. In the fridge, perfectly lined next to one another on the top shelf, were the bottles of syrups and drizzles Marco used frequently for his coffee. His favorites were the raspberry and the butterscotch and Jean’s were the chocolate and the caramel. They both had a mutual liking for the butterscotch, so Marco took that one out of the fridge. This plastic bottle had the least amount out of all of them because it was the one Marco used at least every other day, but there was just enough to last them for a week or two, so they were good. The bottle joined the empty mugs and sugar on the island while Marco ran upstairs to his suitcase. He remembered bringing his butterscotch candies with him in the car for the road and an idea sparked in his head that he thought would make their first morning together in the cabin a delicious one. As soon as his foot hit the first floor once again, the coffee was ready for pouring and Marco smiled for the first time that day. Impatient feet jogged across the wood panels to the kitchen where needy fingers grabbed the handle of the coffee pot and poured coffee into both mugs. Marco slipped the pot back in its holder in the plastic maker and fetched a plastic spoon from the box on the counter. Jean liked two sugars and milk, not too sweet but not black and bitter (like his soul, he always added), and Marco liked his with three sugars and milk. He opened the fridge and fetched the whip cream, shook it, and put a heaping ice-cream-cone-like swirl on top of both. Next were the butterscotch syrup, which he so expertly drizzled back and forth across the lump of white, and the butterscotch candy he placed right in the center.

As if perfectly on cue, Jean opened front door so slowly in case Marco was still asleep, but after hearing the, “I’m up already, you don’t have to pretend to be a burglar,” Jean hurriedly pushed it open and ducked inside. It slammed behind him and Marco could hear loud panting from the foyer. He craned his neck over the island to try and peer at Jean, but the wall blocked his vision.

“Jean, you alright?”

“I’m fuckin’ exhausted, I’m soaked, and did I mention exhausted?”

Marco chuckled and walked around the island to see Jean, true to his word, drenched in sweat and water. His hair was matted against his forehead and the white t-shirt he had been wearing was now completely transparent (not that Marco was complaining). Making sure to not step on the wet spots on the floor, Marco walked over to Jean and gently lifted the hem of his shirt up and over his head. He gave him a chaste kiss hello, which Jean further deepened, wrapping his arms around Marco’s waist and pulling him closer. Marco laughed into Jean’s lips and pulled away to kiss Jean’s nose and pepper his cheeks in smooches.

“I made coffee. Go upstairs and put on some dry clothes so we can warm up. Come on Jean, you’re gonna catch a cold and then you’re gonna blame me and I don’t want to hear it.” In between Marco attempting to coax him out of the entryway, Jean stole kisses and allowed his hands to travel up Marco’s sides. Honestly, if Marco hadn’t woken up less than twenty minutes ago, he would’ve been more than on board with having a morning round. But this is Marco without his cup of wake-up coffee, and a Marco without his cup of wake-up coffee wasn’t ready to do much of anything. So he gently pushed on Jean’s torso to give him the hint, kissed him one more time, and retreated to the kitchen. Jean groaned at the loss of contact and sneezed, to which Marco yelled out a, “HA!” and brought their coffee into the living room.

Once Jean had settled with a comfortable pair of black sweatpants and dry socks, he met Marco back on the floor in front of the fireplace. Marco handed him his cup of coffee, complete with butterscotch accessories, after Jean had sparked another fire and plopped down next to him. Jean took a sip and silently appreciated Marco’s gift for balancing the right amount of sweet from the syrup with the bitter from the coffee. He picked off the butterscotch candy from the whipped cream and chewed it to bits, something Marco absolutely despised. “You’re supposed to suck on it and savor the flavor, you’re doing it wrong,” was Marco’s response most of the time, and Jean normally replied with a sexual retort to make Marco’s eyes roll.

But Marco didn’t say anything in response to the crunching, and neither did Jean. If he was being honest, Jean’s mind was a little elsewhere for a minute. Sometimes he just zoned out and some things just…hit him. And in that moment, with his head on Marco’s shoulder, butterscotched coffee in his hands, sitting in front of the fireplace in his space, he was hit with a lot of things at once.

The first being that that cabin was no long his space; he wasn’t the only one who was going to be in it anymore. He wasn’t the only one who knew of the terrors that haunted those rooms or his choked sobs grooved into the wood of the walls or even of the heartache of losing his loved one. It was no longer his getaway spot, his destination for venting -- nothing was solely his in there, not anymore.

It was  _theirs._

He was alone no longer. Yes, he and Marco had been friends in high school and now lovers for five years, but that feeling of loneliness nagged at his mind some of the time. And now that Jean realized that this space was now  _their_  space, he knew that nagging would never come back, because now the cabin, the anchor holding him to his past and to his troubled years, has been lifted. There was no more anchor. There was no more ball and chain tying him to dealing with his grandfather’s death in solitude, and Marco had been the one to break it.

Marco, with his instant ability to understand and sympathize and love unconditionally. His Marco, who always smelled of butterscotch and caramel and toffee, who was Jean’s reason to get up in the morning and the instigator to compassion he didn’t even know he was capable of. Marco, who reminded him of the sun’s warmth in spring and freshly picked sunflowers. Marco, who snuggled close to him on winter nights, who knew him better than anyone else, who made clouds disappear and who could weaken the heart of anyone who spoke to him for all of three seconds.

And, as he lay against Marco in a living room that was witness to the darkest moments of his childhood, Jean smiled and closed his eyes. He let the heat from the fire envelope his body. He listened to the rain patter against the windows. He let his love run through his veins, through his lips and onto the shoulder of Marco’s that he kissed. He let that anchor fall from view, because this cabin wouldn’t hold anymore sad memories of the past and of heartbreaking things that have occurred so long ago. Jean wouldn’t let it. Instead, he vowed to make new memories -- ones filled with laughter and kindness and love and a different kind of safety than the only one he’d ever known.

But above all, Jean finally realized that it was okay. All of those years he spent in that cabin that felt like solitary confinement, nothing shy of a broken mess; Jean knew it was over. Jean accepted he was depressed and heartbroken and shattered to bits and tiny pieces, but he embraced that part of him, because that’s exactly what it was -- a part of him. It wasn’t the most graceful or the most pleasant, but it helped him shape into the man he had become. It helped him grow, even if he didn’t see it at the time. It was his way of grieving, and even if he could have gone about it a little better, it was over, and he was okay.

 

You’ve let that person into your space, and you realize that it was one of the best decisions you’ve made to date. Sure, you had your doubts and worries and conflictions with yourself over what their opinion or reaction would be, but this person has quieted all of them. This person, who now knows the you from the past, from the present, and who will certainly know you in the future, has seen you at your worst. Perhaps it wasn’t your _physical_  worst, but it was your emotional and your mental and a time that you were distraught over most. You think this is a bit disconcerting because just the idea of it alone is a tad overwhelming, but it lifts something off of your shoulders you didn’t know needed lifting. It makes you feel the kind of safe you thought you felt in that space all along, although now it’s not an actual place, it’s a person.

Your person is your safe haven, and that makes you feel elated.

Now, with your full trust and all of your love for this person, the two of you sit together under a blanket of navy in front of a fire in your space. But it’s not your space anymore -- it’s the ghost of your space. It’s a shell, now that you think about it, because every scream, every shrill cry and every bit of sadness has bled out of the walls and into your person. Those walls may have sheltered them, but they did not care for them. They only gave them a place to fester and circulate with the sole purpose of taunting you.

Your person is different. Your person has sucked every negative thing out of those walls into their mind and quieted them. Your person has hushed them and told them everything will be alright and things are looking up. Your person, your wonderful, trusted, most cherished person, has comforted the worst part of you, and no amount of words in any language will be able to convey your gratitude and your appreciation. No words, no actions, no thoughts, nothing could ever be conjured to accurately deliver your sheer love and admiration and pure  _joy_  that you have for your person. Because they did what you thought to be unthinkable -- they put those times to rest. They didn’t rid of them or throw them away or deny any of them, but they acknowledged them and hushed them and lulled them to peace. And that is what you are now, at peace. It may take some time to fully heal, but you think this is a really good start and that eventually you will look back on everything and smile. You’ll learn to focus on the good – of the summer sun kissing your skin and of the red marks the tubes left on your calves in the river. You’ll reflect on the fish you caught and threw back for a second chance. You’ll be able to listen to those piano concertos on your grandfather’s cassette player and even though you will feel a tug at your heart, you will grin and you will hum along.

So you think being in the shell of your former safe haven will be okay. There are no more lingering howls of anguish and torment ready to show themselves at every turn. There are no more ghosts of the past preparing to haunt you with terrible nightmares and thoughts of never being reunited with your loved one. They are not nonexistent, they are just simply absent. It’s nice to know that they still are around, in a way. You may not want them to be present all the time as a constant reminder of everything that had taken place, but accepting all you went through and finally making peace with it has rid you of any lingering grief. Is that to say that you won’t feel anything over those years, over your loved one, every again? Certainly not. There will be times when they will show themselves and there will be times when they try to shove you back into that hole of despair you’ve lived in for so long.

However, try as they may, they fail to realize something you have now that you didn’t before -- you have your person. You have someone to lend you a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen or a mouth to give words of solace. You will never be alone again, and that will frighten every ghoul, every ghost and every monster that has fed off of your misfortune for all that time.

You smile and you relish in the good that you know is to come. You will fill those walls with happy memories and replace every terrible moment with unforgettable ones with your person. You’re certain you will.

So for now, you close your eyes and you sink into the blanket of navy with your person’s fingers laced with your own, humming your favorite song. 

And you think that in that moment, there was nothing more you needed than butterscotch and rain.

 

* * *

 

 _You were more to me than family, you were my best friend, and I never actually thanked you for that. I know I came here a lot after everything and I like to think you knew, but I look back on all of our time together and it was the happiest time of my life. I mean now I have Marco with me. I really wish you could meet him, he’s kinda like you. He’s got the same charm and the same open attitude, and I just know you would’ve loved him._  

 _I heard Marco go into your room the other day. He thought I was downstairs reading the book you gave me, but I heard him, and I hope you did too. He’s really thankful to you. He started crying because he was so grateful that you were there for me and you gave me good memories to hold on to. I am too, but he really, really thanked you. He promised to look after me and take care of me and he hopes he gets your approval._  

_I hope you’re proud of me. I fucked up a lot of the time and I did a lot of stupid shit, but I hope you’re proud of me._

_I still miss you, pops. Every day._

 

_We’ll see ya._

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and messages are always welcome, please feel free to leave any! I'm actually kinda proud of this yahoo.


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